


Love That I Need

by electricblueninja



Category: Super Junior
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6074680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryeowook tells Donghae what to do</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love That I Need

As he closes his hand around your throat, you feel the relief wash over you.

 

This is what you wanted.

 

You know you shouldn’t try to get it how you do. It’s not very mature, the way you tease him, playing hot and cold when you want his attention, but you do it anyway. It’s less of a deliberate choice, the way you pick on him like a schoolkid, and more of an impulse—one you never quite learned to control.

 

The thing is, though, he’s so sweet and gentle and beautiful. And you do love that about him; really, you do. But you have never felt worthy of his love and adoration, not for an instant. You’ve never done anything to _deserve_ the way he loves you. He just seemed to decide all by himself that you were some kind of god, and he treats you too well, and it makes you…well… _uncomfortable_.

 

Besides, you already knew about his other side.

 

He’s sweet and gentle and beautiful, to be sure, but the man has a titanium core. Carbon fibre. He’s made of something harder and brighter than diamonds. The glint of it sneaks out through his eyes sometimes. You like that side of him: the aggressive side. But he’s young, in relation to the rest of the group, and his opportunities to show his strength are few and far between, his power diminished by age relations.

 

Not with you. The age difference doesn’t come into play between the two of you, except that you like to wind him up right until he snaps and subverts it. You mess around sometimes, make him call you hyung, pick on his weaknesses, but if you play your cards right, annoy him just the right amount, and work out a way to get him alone soon enough, then he lets it out, all on you, and for whatever reason, you really, _really_ like it when he gives you that kind of attention. Something about the set of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, and the way his lips tighten…the fact that he’s shorter, but when you light the burner under him, he still manages to look _down_ on you.

 

He’s doing it now, his head tipped back so he can shoot you a piercing, commanding glare through his eyelashes, still thickly made up from the photoshoot.

 

Yeah, you probably shouldn’t have made the blowjob gesture at him. You know that. But it’s getting you exactly what you wanted, so you’re abashed, but you can’t even pretend that you regret it.

 

‘Is this funny to you, hyung?’ he asks, his tone laced like concealed razors under velvet.

 

The pad of Ryeowook’s thumb is resting on your pulse. On the other side of your throat, his fingertips.

 

He can feel the way your heartbeat is quickening.

 

He smirks, the expression so sharp that it looks almost cruel, and you feel delicious gooseflesh creep over your skin as he adjusts his grip experimentally.

 

The contact is just enough; right before too much; a tantalising pressure. The heel of his hand presses against your oesophagus. Presses just enough that it forces you to accelerate your already-laboured breathing.

 

‘You’re not going to apologise?’ asks Ryeowook, dropping off to informal language, and you have to look away from his eyes. The power in them is too much; if you didn’t look away, you’d whimper. You’re already feeling weak at the knees.

 

‘Huh,’ says Ryeowook, to himself, contemplative. ‘I see.’

 

Your face angled down, you find yourself staring at his crotch, and no word of a lie, the way he looks in those tight black jeans makes you start to salivate a little.

 

You swallow thickly. He’s still smirking; you know it. You like it.

 

You’re leaning into his palm a little, and his fingers flex again; always careful, always making sure he won’t bruise you or cause any damage.

 

He leans forward, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘Nothing to say for yourself, then? Bad man.’

 

You do whimper, this time, and as he huffs his satisfaction softly into your ear another shudder ripples over you.

 

There’s a long silence, just him holding you by the throat, and your heartrate ever increasing, before he backs you up the couple of inches remaining between you and the wall.

 

‘Hyung,’ he says, all soft coating and hard core, ‘You’d like it if I touched you now, wouldn’t you.’

 

It’s not a question—it’s a statement of fact, said clearly into the still, darkish interior of the dressing room cubicle. No one else is here, and you’ve locked the door, precisely because you were hoping very much that he would touch you, but even so, the words bring with them a shiver of anticipation. Your blood flow is shifting south, as though trying to clear away the tangled web of lust unfurling in your stomach.

 

Ryeowook draws away, and watches intently, a small smile at the corner of his lips, as your dick begins to stir beneath the thin cotton of your sweatpants.

 

You nod, but you would have felt dizzy even if the pressure against your windpipe _hadn’t_ changed. You’re so aroused it’s almost pitiful, and you _like_ it—the fond, indulgent way he looks at your stirring erection.

 

‘Guess what, hyung?’ he says, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours, glinting in the half-light (wouldn’t do to have the lights on; people would know you were in there then). ‘I’m not going to.’

 

As the words flick off his tongue, you’re paralysed by the adrenaline. He sees it in your eyes—startled desperation—and chuckles softly, the sound of his voice rich and resonant.

 

‘Touch _yourself_ , hyung,’ he commands informally, and there’s another spike in your pulse as you connect the words with meaning.

 

‘Myself?’ you echo, stifled by his hand, and he raises an immaculate eyebrow.

 

‘That’s what I said, hyung. Go on.’

 

It wasn’t exactly what you’d been aiming for, but the unexpected command was pleasurable in itself.

 

Hyper-aware of your vulnerability under Ryeowook’s intent gaze, you push your sweatpants midway down your thighs, letting your dick swing free. You’re unable to help the gasp that escapes you at the coolness of the air on your sensitive skin. The dressing room has never been cosy, and autumn doesn’t do anyone any favours.

 

He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on your face, for now, and it’s a thousand times more intimate than if he’d just look at your cock instead.

 

‘Go on,’ he orders, as you hesitate, ‘Touch yourself.’

 

You do as you’re told; cautious; inhibited; hot with embarrassment and excitement. You can’t look back at him. You can’t do it. You try, but your gaze just falls away, like brittle leaves, powerless against the cold onslaught of a stiff autumn breeze.

 

Your fingertips are blessedly warm as you caress the head of your cock and slide them down, down, to nestle in the thick black curls of your pubic hair, and back up, up until you find that place which is _just right_ , massaging; gentle and cautious.

 

You see, in your peripheral vision, the tip of Ryeowook’s tongue slide out between his lips; a flash of white teeth as his canine pinches the plump pink skin of his own lip.

 

The air between you seems to thicken. His gaze has started to falter, dropping to your cock.

 

You can _feel_ him enjoying the spectacle, and you find it motivating, bringing your hand up to your lips for a sluice of spit, because dry just isn’t going to cut it.

 

‘There’s no rush,’ says Ryeowook, calmly. Apparently, he has recovered from his moment of weakness.

 

You beg to differ. You’d like to get off _quickly_ , but his tone is adamant, so you slow down, concentrating on making your strokes longer and firmer; changing pressure and direction. Every sensation shows on your face. You know it does, because something similar to this has happened before. But he had you standing in front of a mirror, that time, and watched over your shoulder. That’s how you know how he must look right now, too—you _know_ the look that will be in his eyes.

 

You can hear your own breath, starting to come out in pants, as you tighten your palm around your shaft and bend your wrist, fighting the urge to increase the speed.

 

Finally showing a crack in his composure, even if it’s only in the form of shorter sentences, he says: ‘Both hands.’

 

‘You won’t help?’ you say, unable to hold back the petulant outburst, and you are punished (or is that rewarded) with the increased pressure of his palm.

 

His hand slips upwards, fingers taking hold of your jaw, and he pulls your chin up, forcing you to make eye contact with him.

 

The intimacy is almost unbearable. His eyes are dark and, in them, you feel like you can see everything and nothing at all, all at once. It’s like being trapped in deep space. He’s tapping into your pleasure; drawing on your every gasp and reading every change in your expression to try to understand what you’re feeling, gentle but unforgiving hand around your throat.

 

You try to tell him, with your eyes, what it feels like. How good it is. How much you want him.

 

He knows. You have all of his concentration. He’s soaking it all up—the sounds, the sensations, the sights…voyeuristic. Dirty.

 

He loves to watch. Gets off on the power you’re giving him by letting him see you like this; panting desperately under his hand, and not in the way you’d expected.

 

You moan, long and stilted, trying to hush yourself. Your orgasm is building now; you’re using both hands, like he said to, and under his scrutiny, every sensation seems infinitely magnified.

 

‘Shit,’ you say. You can feel the sweat on your forehead forming droplets, sliding over your skin; your back is getting damp against the wall. You’re close, so damn close, and _oh_ —

 

The world spins.

 

You lose your balance, collapsing back against the wall. Ryeowook is there to take most of your weight, leaning in so that his grip on your throat doesn’t become too much; his forearm against your chest, pushing you back and holding you in place as a thick, sticky mess surges through your fingers. Some drips down your pants, and the second and third spurts splatter on the carpet. Not that you care—neither of you care. The dressing rooms have seen far worse, or so you’d be thinking if you were capable of thought. Instead, heart racing, you just savour the weight of Ryeowook’s body against you, and the swirling miasma of space and time that accompanies the moment of orgasm.

 

He gently lets go of your throat, his hand finding your bicep instead, and presses his temple to your cheek. He feels hot; flushed. He’s turned on now, his erection pushed against your thigh, but you know he won’t fuck you: not here. He’s very particular about some things; only likes having sex in your apartment, and never when someone else is there—not since that one time Heechul-hyung caught you at it.

 

You start to slide down the wall, and he moves with you. Pulls you down into his embrace, slumped on the floor. He strokes your hair, and says nothing, but you don’t really need words these days.

 

You murmur his name, sleepily, all the same, and he smiles against your forehead.

**Author's Note:**

> Cracksmut. Idk. [These pictures](http://hexamarillion.tumblr.com/post/115382610580/sneezes-cr-crystalching) will haunt me forever.


End file.
